


Ghosts of the Undead

by LigeiaMaloy



Series: The Chaotic Romantic Adventures of Dylan Shepard and Garrus Vakarian [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Action, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LigeiaMaloy/pseuds/LigeiaMaloy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan Shepard is back in action! Which means, he is having fun with his new and old pals. Fun is important, so are memories. A call for his assistance interrupts the small party. Aria needs him to deal with some trouble on her behalf, alone. Finally, an opportunity to flex his biotics, but there's someone who doesn't like the idea of Shepard leaving alone at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of the Undead

**Author's Note:**

> Dylan "Chaos" Shepard is back, in the third part of my silly series!  
> (Where does the angst come from when I want to write comedy?!)
> 
> Also, thanks to [Sisyphe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisyphe/pseuds/Sisyphe) for helping me decide which short-fic idea I should write first!
> 
> Set during the events of ME 2, somewhat true to canon, but slightly altered because story.

_You owe me two years of this, Death!_

Dylan Shepard's eyes wandered from face to face. For the moment, it was him, and the group of old and new friends, and nothing else that he needed from the galaxy. Jacob's curious expression, Samara, with her smirk of experience that always seemed to say, "Ah, youth!" when Shepard took the lead. Miranda's unreadable expression, somewhere between an amused smile and a frown. Even without her cloak activated, Kasumi blended in with her surroundings. Her hood might have covered most of her face, but not her smirk. Zaeed had more of Samara than either would ever have admitted – the countenance of years and years that observed the impulses of youth with leniency and wistfulness.

Shepard kept a straight face, which meant in his case, mischief sparkled in his blue eyes, and his wide smile didn't twitch in this thick air of expectation. Garrus was sitting next to him, his was the only expression Shepard didn't know, fearing to find judgment in his friend's face. His mind knew there wasn't anything like that, but listening to his mind wasn't always his strongest forte. Since his heart had begun to hope for his best friend's approval whenever he was around, Shepard had the impression that his reason was forsaking him more than ever before.

"Listen, kiddo, small pauses do a story good, but ya've to work on your timing." Zaeed pushed himself away from the wall and reached the bar with two wide steps. "Tell us what that buddy of yours nobody here knows had done while we still give a damn," he muttered from behind the counter, fishing for a stiffer drink.

"Yeah, right."  _Thanks, mind, that's what was I was talking about._

"We called Johanson Uncle Jo. He was three decades older than me, and the kind of guy who wouldn't say no to a drink, and never shut up about the good old days once he had it," he picked up his tale. "The more he had, the better the old days. You know that kind of guy. You tell them how it's done, or how you did it, and they'll tell you they once knew a fella who did it better, as it was done back then." Shepard used another – short – pause to check the reactions of his audience. Most nodded, eyes rolled up as they remembered exactly  _that guy_. Only Miranda rose an eyebrow, her stare fixed at Shepard. He had a hunch that maybe, in her life, he was  _that guy_ , but that was what she got for bringing him back from the dead. It was difficult to find a good rhetoric against arguments that started with "Maybe, Miranda, but before I was dead..."

"Anyway. It was one of those evenings where the drinks were so good that, if you told him that the moon – Luna – was so green tonight and its pink spots glowing so brightly – he'd have argued that back then, the pink spots were pinker and the moon greener. Of course, Earth's moon is neither green nor does it have pink sport, you know." He leaned towards Miranda, chuckling when he heard her inhale sharply after his generous extra explanation, just for her. Somebody nudged his side – Garrus! The nature of his grin changed when he turned around and saw his friend smirking at him. But he also caught the warning nod that told him not to overdo it.

"The two scouts we've sent out came back after investigating the howls and screams. A nearby pack of varren on the other side of the hill, busy with popping out and nursing their youth. If we stayed clear of them – nothing to worry about. We cracked some jokes about the tenderness of young varren meat – a soldier can live forever on military rations, but nobody wants to. Then, s _omebody_  had the bright idea to brag about a silly adventure he had a few years ago. He once hunted after a small pack, and wrestled down the alpha with his bare hands."

"Wonder who that  _somebody_ could have been," Garrus muttered next to him.

"Well," Shepard ignored him, "It was a damn good story. A bit exaggerated here and there, though."

"And by now, we all know without a doubt who that  _somebody_ was." Garrus leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs and crossing his arms behind head, smug and satisfied. Shepard shot him what was supposed to be an indignant glare, but lost his gaze at the sight of the long limbs.

 _Stop being hot right now, or..._   _Yeah, right. Storytime._  Geez, he was getting worse. With what was lying ahead of them, he had to stay focus. Shepard didn't blame Miranda for the disapproving frowns she was wearing more frequently lately. There were still allies to win over before the big final mission against the Collectors started, and here he was, unable to tell a simple story because a pair of turian legs distracted him.

"Uncle Jo, of course, had wrestled with ten rabid varren at some point in his life or knew somebody who had heard of someone who might have been told it had been done. Important was, it was 'back then'," he put the last words in air quotes. "We had a good chuckle at his tale, and some irresponsible dude – yeah, yeah, it was me, Vakarian, stop snorting! - said something like 'well, too bad you're an old fart now, so it's canned food for the squad, again.' Should have considered that he wasn't THAT old and that only one thing could rival a varren mother protective of her young - his stubbornness and pride as a soldier."

"No." Kasumi chuckled. Jacob's eyebrows managed to rise as high as Miranda's.

"Yes. I swear, the guy was an animal on the battlefield when he was sober, but a beast when he was drunk. We hadn't heard him sneak away, but trust me, he made himself heard when he came back in the morning." Shepard stood up, pointing at the parts of his body as he spoke on. "Scratches across his face, chest, both arms, legs, bite on his hip. Uncle Jo was a bloody mess, but standing, scowling, and holding a dead, young varren in his hand." He waited for the acknowledging whistles to die down.

"Unfortunately, the fight had sobered him up all right. While the others got ready for the barbecue, he slammed the dead thing square into my face." His finger tapped against his crooked nose. "Fracture no. 3. A stately monument of Sven Johanson, Survivor of the Varren Cave."  _There we are! Of course I still have it in me!_  He had held his audience captive and was rewarded with laughter. Yes, there was schadenfreude ringing through the Port Observation Deck, aimed at him, but he heard what he wanted to hear – warm admiration for a comrade they had never known.

"Wished we hadn't lost him against the slavers." Shepard fell back on the sofa, an inch closer to Garrus for comfort, not too close for his friend's discomfort. "Fought a good fight, took down more than one even after he had lost his left arm. Well." He took his beer back from Garrus, who had been holding the bottle faithfully since Shepard had shoved it into his hands. Shepard lifted the bottle, toasting at yesterday's strangers who were slowly becoming today's friends. "To Uncle Jo, Survivor of the Varren Cave. If we had only had the common sense to fill him with booze before kicking the batarians' asses!"

Again, he harvested laughter that echoed his obituary of a good, fallen soldier. Just like back in the days, when he was on his way up the chain of command without even caring. He hadn't needed the brass, he needed good friends, good fun, and a good adventure.

But it gets hard not to care when they call you a hero for not getting everyone killed.  _I'd die to see good old Uncle Jo here, having a bragging contest with Zaeed. Or how he'd try to flirt with Samara after a few too many drinks. But I guess you can cheat death only so many times._

"You okay, Shepard? That was quite the heavy sigh," a worried voice asked him from the side. He turned his head and met Garrus' blue eyes that mirrored the tone of his voice.

"All good, my friend, all good." So he had sighed after his memories, missing the days  _back then._  His grin was genuine as he wondered if he'd live long enough to become the next Uncle Jo.

"You have a strange way to honor the soldiers who have fallen for you to become a hero."

He looked up. Miranda was standing in front of him. A part of his mind registered that the disapproving frown gave her smooth face character. Pretty as she was, she'd be stunning if she laughed more. However, he had decided that he'd figure out a way to beat the reaper sooner than figuring out how to make her laugh.

"He loved a good story. And to laugh, Miranda." He glanced past her. The rest of the allies had returned to the chatter he had interrupted when he had joined them. If he wasn't mistaken, the atmosphere had changed. They seemed more relaxed, their laughs were open and friendly. Good.

"Death isn't a laughing matter. I doubt your friend wants to be remembered for a drunk stunt." Her non-nonchalant way to let the word 'death' glide over her lips could only come from somebody who had tinkered with the thin, indestructible line between death and life.

"I wish we could ask him, Miranda." He leaned forward, his hands dangling between his legs, as he was still looking up at her. "His remains are still on Elysium. Is there a chance?"

"You never know when to stop with your jokes. Please excuse me, Commander. I have work to do." Shoulders pulled back, head high, she marched out of the room. He sighed, daring to rest his head against Garrus' arm when he let himself fall back.

"Do you believe me that I wasn't joking?"

"I don't need to believe that, Shepard. I know it." The low voice sent a shiver down Shepard's spine, the loyal words blurred his brain better than the alcohol. He was an idiot. He wanted to get over his crush on his turian friend, he had to, yet he had a knack to make this more difficult than it had to be. He had to get a clear head, the sooner, the better. Distraction could help, maybe in the arms of another man. He remembered that he had seen Kaidan once flirt with one of the human C-Sec officers during their visit on the Citadel. Too bad he wasn't here.

_Doesn't matter. Sleeping through the crew's never a good idea. And the best beer can't satisfy the thirst for wine._

His head was still lying heavily against Garrus' arm, unnoticed by their friends, or maybe they simply possessed more tact than Shepard would have shown. He considered himself fortunate to have them on his side. He missed Tali and Liara. What an army could he have gathered if his friends from the first Normandy were with him. And Wrex. How was winning a war supposed to be fun without Wrex?

"Any idea how to justify a trip to Tuchanka?"

"You're the commanding officer, Shepard," Garrus reminded him. "The ship might wear Cerberus' colors, and the crew Cerberus' uniforms, but we all know that ship and crew are yours. We're here because of you, and if you want to see Wrex we'll come with you because of you. Well." Garrus gave a husky laugh that made Shepard shudder. "I'd also come to convince myself that Wrex has become a respectable member of the krogan society."

Shepard listened closely for any sign of discomfort in his friend's voice, but if there was any, then Garrus was hiding it well. Also, he wasn't moving away or squirming in his seat. Only his fingers were twitching on his lap. Shepard was grateful for the remaining friends in this room, their presence freed him from the decision if he could dare to take and hold one of these fascinating hands.

"Commander, we've received an incoming high priority message," EDI's bodiless voice flowed into the Observation Deck. "I suggest you read it soon. I deciphered Citadel as the source. Process to specify the location is running."

"Thanks, EDI. Well, let's see what it's this time. Maybe an apology from the council." He and Garrus laughed. Shepard stood up, looking Garrus' straight into his eyes.

The chatter and laughter around them faded into the same void of unimportance like the humming of the engine room. The weight of space and their missions waited in silence for the moment to pass.

"You... you're a great friend, Garrus."

"I'm trying my best, Shepard."

"No." Shepard chuckled at the sudden look of confusion on his friend's face. "You're not trying. You just are. That's what makes you so great." He gave Garrus' shoulder a friendly pat and set off to his cabin. His neck was tingling, a typical sign for one of his hunches. This one told him that he better read this message in private.

*

_Do I have everything? Good. Time to go!_

He rocked up and down on his feet. Five more minutes until they arrived at the docking station of the Citadel. He wouldn't have much time to leave the Normandy and hasten to the point of destination. He checked his armor. The new parts added extra weight but were far from heavy. If anything, they'd give him more momentum if he charged into an enemy. He was dying to try the improvements in battle. If Mordin was right – and Shepard didn't doubt his word – the upgrades would offer extra protection against biotic attacks, and help him recover from his own use of biotics. The numbers hadn't sound impressive, but Shepard took what he could get. So far, everything was promising. Although, the lightweight on his back was irritating. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed air.

"Looking for this, Shepard?"

Shepard jumped around.

_Damn, busted._

"Any reason why you're all suited up on your free day, Vakarian? Thanks." He took his shotgun from Garrus' hands and shoved it on his back. He nodded at the turian, who stood in front of him in full armor.

"I had a hunch I might need it." Garrus crossed his arms and looked down at Shepard. Even through the helmet, Shepard sensed the stubborn glare. "Where are you going? Even Kasumi didn't seem to know. Or didn't want to tell. Couldn't be sure if the ridiculous amount of credits she wanted for the information was meant to be serious, or a tactic to scare me off before she had to admit that she's clueless."

"Or, maybe, she listened to her commander who told her to stay away from him for today." Shepard mirrored the pose, his glare as stubborn. Then, he suddenly laughed. "Though, some credits might be involved to get the message across."

"Is that so." Garrus wasn't impressed, nor did he join the laughter.

"Come on, mom, let me play with the kids downtown." Shepard bumped his shoulder against Garrus' chest. Garrus stood in silence, his fingers tapping on his upper arms. Shepard withstood the unseen stare and the reproachful silence. Before a minute had passed, he threw his hands up in defeat.

"Yeah, yeah, alright! I confess, officer Vakarian!"  _Do me a favor and never ask me if I love you._

"Aria T'Loak contacted me. Her buddy, the Patriarch got into some trouble with one of the gang leaders, and she wants someone whose discretion she can trust. Thanks by the way for making me break it." He hurled a playful punch at Garrus. His friend still didn't give as much as a chuckle, and Shepard was running out of ideas.

"I'm coming with you."

"No, Garrus, you aren't." Shepard put on his serious face. "I agreed to go alone, and what I told the others also applies to you: You have a day off. That's my last word on that matter."

"I'm not letting you go to Omega alone! You've been there, Shepard. It's a cesspool of violence and crime, and you don't know if some mercs still remember your face from your stunt with, uhm..." Garrus cleared his throat, scratching the back of his helmet. "Archangel. It's too dangerous. I'm coming with you." He pulled his rifle from his back, holding it ready as though he was about to storm into a battle. He moved a step closer to Shepard, lowering his head.

"Let me protect you this time."

 _Holy..._  The shudder running through his body had nothing to do with any hunches. Those words, said with that voice... he'd let him do things to him he better left unspoken, but that didn't change anything about the situation at hand.

"Garrus Vakarian, I'm not taking  _the_ Archangel with me on a side mission on Omega! If you're right and anyone remembers my face, seeing me with a turian in blue, damaged armor by my side will make it easy for the dumbest of them to put us into context. I'm going alone. That's an order from your commanding officer!"

"But... I'm sorry, Shepard. I apologize for the insubordination," Garrus sighed when Shepard put his hand on his arm. "Be careful."

"You know me."

"That's exactly why I'm worried, Shepard."

*

On Omega, nobody cared that he had come back from the dead. Nobody paid attention to the healing scars that held his face together, or that he was wearing an Alliance uniform that lacked the official insignia. Nobody questioned that he had climbed out of a Cerberus shuttle. His face was one of many, and as long as his name wasn't dropped, he was like everyone else – nobody and everybody, depending on who he was talking to.

Shepard had conquered a chair close to the center section of the Afterlife Club. He was one of many who sipped on their drink in peace while enjoying the atmosphere. Electronic music hammered the melody into his ears and vibrated under his feet. The beat drowned the synthetic voice that was singing to it. Shepard's eyes were mesmerized by the asari dancers. They were in a synchrony rhythm with the music, as though the beat was moving them instead of them moving to the beat. He had no sexual desire for them – although he appreciated their beauty. Their sight along with the music washed through his brain, freeing him from thoughts and worries. Except for one.

 _If he was here..._ If they were here, together, as guests, drunk with music and alcohol, withdrawn in a dark corner flashes of light illuminating their faces whenever they danced over them...

"Commander."

"What?" he snapped harsher than intended when the voice ripped him away from his daydream. A turian pulled up a chair and sat down at his table.

"Aria sent me."

"I see. So you're Grizz." Shepard recognized him as one of Aria T'Loak's bodyguards from his last visits. He guessed him twice as old as Garrus. His eyes were pale, the markings on his face fading. The surface of his face plating looked brittle and was cracked in several places. The fringe was in a similar condition. The mandibles, however, were still in their impressive shape. Shepard couldn't make up his mind of this turian was attractive. He'd go with 'no', but then again, he was biased. Or maybe it was the lack of any friendliness and warmth in Grizz' face.

"Done?" Grizz' talons were impatiently tapping on the table.

"Sure." Shepard wanted to laugh about himself. He was so busy with finding an answer to the question if he was into turians in general or into that very specific turian who waited for his return on the Normandy, that he hadn't realized that he was staring.

"So whatever is up is important enough to contact me, yet your queen doesn't speak to me herself," he came down to business. A rush of energy shot through him and a blue glow emitted from his body, only for the fraction of a second, but he was sure Grizz had noticed it.

"If this is a trap, Grizz, do me the favor and don't let me wait." He stretched his arms and legs, grinning at the turian. "The last days were boring, and I'm itching for some excitement."

"The amount of excitement depends on you," Grizz commented, unimpressed by the not so subtle threat. "The Patriarch managed to piss of the Blood Pack. Nobody knows how, but some names want to see his head roll. After Garm, their leader, was killed during the Archangel incident, things are hectic among their ranks. A wrong word and fuses are blown."

"And Aria can't afford another bodyguard and thinks I'll do the job because we're buddies?" Shepard raised his eyebrows. He had met the Patriarch shortly when he had come to recruit Archangel – Garrus. The old krogan was proud, loud, but unlike other krogans – pathetic. Shepard couldn't help liking him but assumed that pity played a role in this. The Patriarch's best days were over. He was an old man without much power and influence of his own. All what still belonged to him were the stories of his former glory. He tried to imagine Wrex in his place – no, it didn't work. Wrex' pride would shatter under these circumstances and Wrex with it. He was beginning to understand why he had been asked to help.

"The Patriarch would bite off any bodyguard's head, claiming that he can take care of himself," Grizz confirmed Shepard's guess. "Long story short, some people could see him as Aria's weak spot if she herself showed too much interest in his welfare. The Patriarch wouldn't allow any protection from us. That's why she called you. You fooled the three main gangs. You should be able to handle the Patriarch and a few Blood Pack assassins."

Shepard chuckled, shaking his head. Of course, Aria T'Loak would know that he had infiltrated the gangs to get closer to Archangel. Well, maybe he had asked her too many questions about the war going on, and about Archangel himself. Garrus had been right, if she knew, if Grizz knew, it wasn't unlikely that others were aware of his role during the final assault that 'killed' Archangel.

"So you want me to get rid of whoever is after him."

"Get rid of them, help him defeat them, or convince him to keep it low for a while. Whatever keeps him alive." Grizz stood up. "You should find him in one of the rooms downstairs. Leave when this is over. Aria's going to contact you as soon as you're back on the Normandy." Done with delivering the instructions, Grizz left Shepard alone.

 _Bodyguard for the Patriarch, eh?_ Shepard finished his beer. He wanted to avoid anyone becoming suspicious of him if he jumped from his seat too quickly. But it didn't look like he had to worry. Nobody had paid attention to him during the conversation. The song had changed, the volume was as deafening as before. Other guests had walked past them without looking at him or Grizz, none of them had hesitated or lurked around. He had liked the previous song better. He put down his beer and stood up.

*

"I said no, and that's my last word, human." The krogan growled at him, his arm cutting through the air as he interrupted Shepard. The commander wasn't convinced that it was his tale that irritated the Patriarch. The krogan had hardly listened but glared after the couple that had left when Shepard had sent them out.

_Never interrupt a bragging soldier who has nothing left but his stories. Sorry dude, but this is kinda important if you want to share more of them._

"I've taken you for a lot of things, Patriarch, but not a fool," Shepard said aloud. He was leaning against the door frame, ready to jump into the krogan's way if he tried to leave the room before they were done talking.

"Listen, Shepard!" The Patriarch stomped towards him and poked the commander's chest with one of his massive fingers. "Old, a fool, and pathetic. What I'm not is deaf. I know what you kids are saying about me. And maybe you're right. But I'm not a coward! Let them bastards come! I'll stand my ground."

" _Stand_  is probably the wrong word," Shepard scoffed. The spark in the former battle master's eyes once he had mentioned the planned assault had convinced him quickly to drop the idea to send him into hiding. For him, Shepard, it had been less than four days than the last good fight, and he was growing restless. How this had to feel after decades of sitting around was too much for his imagination.

"Rather lie on the ground, or six feet under. Come on, Patriarch. When was your last real fight?"

The krogan scowled at him. That he hadn't charged at the human yet told Shepard enough about the Patriarch's state as a warrior. Pride alone wouldn't win him a battle.

"Who cares when it was? I could take you down anytime, Shepard, and I will if you don't shut up!" He gave Shepard a push that made the commander stagger backward. This was leading to no satisfying outcome, if he didn't think of something else, the Patriarch would charge headlong into his demise.

"Of course you could, but why should you." Shepard changed his tone from aggravation to admiration. The krogan broke off his attack, shooting a suspicious glare at Shepard.

"You're the Patriarch. Yeah, yeah, I know, it hasn't always been a flattering title." Shepard walked back into the room. He looked around, nodding at the opulent furniture with appreciation. "She rules in name, but Omega is your world as much as hers. Of course it is, after all, you are her right hand. You've made Aria who she is today, with your knowledge and ties. And now, you have the ruler of Omega behind you. A man in your position doesn't soil his hands with filth." He walked up to one of the paintings on the wall and touched the framework with awe. Real art, cheap replica or kitsch, he had no idea what he was looking at, but knowing Aria, and the Patriarch, they wouldn't surround themselves with trash.

"Go on." The Patriarch watched him carefully.

"A man of your standing sends others out to do the dirty work for him. I mean, Blood Pack! Since when does the right hand of Aria bothers with the riffraff from the slums?" Shepard turned around with a dramatic spin, waving his hand in disgust. The Patriarch was laughing.

"And you suggest that it'll do my pride justice if I order  _the_  Commander Shepard to take out the trash for me. Well, I have to admit, there's something to all the rubbish you said." The krogan circled Shepard, thinking. His aggressiveness had fallen off of him. Shepard didn't have to fear a sudden attack from him, but he saw the gears behind the Patriarch's forehead working.

"Do you know what a krantt is?" the krogan finally asked.

"Somebody a krogan sends to battle in his name," Shepard answered, remembering Wrex mentioning the word during one of their talks.

"Not just somebody. An ally that can be trusted, who has proven his skill and loyalty. A warrior of the same stand who willingly gives his life if he has to. Only the most powerful krogans make allies like that. You'll fight in my place, as my krantt."

"Sounds like a plan." Shepard didn't hold back his grin anymore. He, alone, against whoever the Blood Pack was throwing at them. He cracked his knuckles. Finally, some fun.

Their head turned towards the door.

Screams followed gunshots, and the commotion caused by people running away echoed through the corridor.

"And we agreed to it just in time. Let's go and meet them outside. Aria won't tolerate any damages to the furniture." The Patriarch stomped out of the room, Shepard hurried after him, his body glowing with biotic energy.

*

The Blood Pack either had decided to be on the careful side, or they had expected to encounter more than the resistance of an old krogan.

The time was too short to gather enough biotic energy for a second Nova.

Shepard finished another vorcha with his shotgun. He charged into one of the krogans and rammed the rear of the gun against his stomach. The krogan didn't even flinch.

"Oh, come on, didn't that hurt at all?" Before Shepard could fire a close-range shot, the krogan's massive fist sent him to the floor. He felt a familiar pain. Blood was dripping from his lips and down his chin. "Dammit. Don't tell me that's fracture no. 5!" He wiped off the blood with his arm. Two vorcha jumped at him, but he rolled out of their way. The short moment had been enough – he jumped to his feet, focused, and slammed his fist to the ground.

The force of the nova hurled the vorcha away. It wasn't enough to kill them, in a few seconds they'd have recovered and be back at his throat.

The krogan's hammer missed its target by an inch. Shepard threw himself over the corpse of a dead krogan – a lucky shot within the first minute that had boosted his confidence, maybe too much. The remaining guy was tough. Shepard's physical attacks had no impact on him, and he wasted too much biotic energy on the dozen of vorcha that scuttled around him, their sharp claws and teeth cutting through the air and his armor.

He had to hurry and change his strategy before they remembered that they, too, were carrying guns.

Another Biotic Charge was interrupted by the vorcha, another Nova pushed them back. He heard bones cracking, hoping that this kill was final. He tore the next vorcha from his throat and slammed him to the floor. The shotgun sealed that one's fate for good. Blood splattered over Shepard's armor and face.

The krogan didn't give him much time to worry or glee about that.

The giant head hit him square in his chest. The air was pressed out of his lungs and he slumped against the wall behind him. A bone inside of him cracked. Pain shot through his side, but he could still breathe - if a rib was broken it hadn't pierced his lungs or any other organs, so far, so lucky.

 _Fuck!_  The fight had started so well, he had quickly turned it in his favor. But after he had killed the first krogan he had become reckless. He had charged towards the second and missed. At once, he had been surrounded by bloodthirsty vorcha.

He dived under the claw that aimed for his face and rolled over the floor. His eyes hastened over the ground, searching for his shotgun. He groaned when he saw it and the krogan's foot standing on top of it.

Shepard inhaled slowly, forcing his breath to find a slow, steady rhythm. When he managed to dodge a few attacks without wasting too much strength his biotic powers should recover enough for another attack. He kicked one vorcha into the stomach, hit another with his fist. Sweat was running down his temples and cheeks, mixing with the blood. Strands of hair came loose from his ponytail and stuck to his face.

Now was his chance! This should be enough for a charge and a Nova attack. If he grabbed the shotgun fast enough, it would be the end for the krogan.

He felt the eezo stream through his body. The glow in his eyes turned the world blue.

The second he charged, half a dozen vorcha threw themselves into his way. With a cry of frustration, he released the precious energy. The way was cleared. He was running out of strength. The krogan came closer, swinging the hammer above his head, a grin on his face.

Shepard jumped back – and hit the wall. That was it. Either he dodged and fled, or he launched one last desperate attack and pummeled the krogan's face with blunt force.

He rose his fists, blue light flickering faintly around them.

"That's some krogan battle master for you! Sending a puny human as his-"

The krogan's laughter stopped. He halted, the hammer dropped to the ground.

"What the...?" Shepard stared at the enemy's face. The krogan was pale, the eyes empty, and... blood was trickling down his face, from a hole between his eyes.

The massive body crashed to the ground. The remaining vorcha looked at each other, communicating through short hisses.

"Holy shit!" The Patriarch stormed into the yard, followed by a group of curious onlookers.

"That's..." A turian who Shepard recognized as one of the bouncers pointed at something behind Shepard. The commander was still struggling to grasp what was going on. Slowly, he turned around, following the stares of the suddenly growing crowd.

A figure was standing on a nearby roof, close enough to flash the blue armor in one of the street lights. It was the shape of his turian body. A rifle was resting on his shoulder.

"Archangel!" somebody shouted. "Archangel is back!"

"Bullshit." The Patriarch pushed a gawking Batarian out of his way and joined Shepard. "Archangel got killed weeks ago."

"His ghost! Fuck! Not dealing with ghosts, no way!" A human, pale as a ghost himself, shoved himself through the group of humans and aliens and hurried back into the Afterlife. Others followed him. The whispering of the words Archangel and ghost were growing into a vibrating chant of fear and wonder.

 _You son of a bitch! How long have you been standing there?_ The figure had vanished from the roof, but Shepard was still staring at the empty spot.

"Hey, you!" The Patriarch grabbed a vorcha, ignoring the hissing and the bites. "Take your buddies and hurry back to the rest of your filthy horde! Tell them, the Patriarch's krantt is in league with the Ghost of Archangel." He released the shaking creature, who, along with the other remaining vorcha, ran for their lives.

"I have no idea how you did it." The Patriarch slapped Shepard's shoulder. "But in a few minutes, the Blood Pack will know that Archangel's ghost is haunting Omega and that he's on my side. Before the day is over, the whole damned station will know."

*

Shepard enjoyed the silence. He rarely did, he was one of those men who found strength in the company of others, their laughter, jokes, or even insults and fights. Tonight, silence it was.

Dr. Chakwas had fixed his injuries – only a few bruises and cuts, a cracked rib and a not-broken nose.

His blond hair was falling over his shoulders, unkempt and still moist from the shower.

Having the Starboard Observation Deck all to himself, he slouched on the couch facing the window. Samara, that wonderful woman Samara, had sensed his need for solitude and left him alone with his thoughts. Shepard hadn't talked much once he had returned to the Normandy, and the rest of the crew decided to stay out of his way until he was himself again. He hadn't seen Garrus since.

For a few minutes, Shepard was brooding over the fight. He had given a poor show. He was strong enough, and smart enough, to take on a group of mercs on his own, but today, he had lost his head. That could have ended ugly for him, either with the humiliation of fleeing from a fight, or worse, his death. But was death still the worst? He had always been headstrong and reckless, but had what had happened to him, what Cerberus had done to him, taken away his last remaining respect towards death?

He looked at his hands, clenched them into fists, and relaxed them again. He was alive, he wanted to be alive. This wasn't a bonus stage, a few extra moments with nothing to lose. It was a second chance, and if he didn't start getting his act together he'd lose everything for good.

The door behind him slid open.

"Well, well, Archangel's ghost makes another appearance." Shepard stared out the wide window into space.

"I'm sorry." Garrus' feet shuffled over the floor. He wasn't wearing his heavy boots, so he had found time to change before coming here. He stopped behind Shepard.

"You're not. Saving my life aside, what else do you have to say in your defense?" Shepard stretched his head back, resting it on the back seat and looked up at Garrus.

"You said I wasn't allowed to go with you. So I went alone. Just visiting places and a few old memories." There was a strain in his otherwise nonchalant voice, Shepard noticed. Garrus didn't feel half as comfortable with his fake excuse as he pretended.

"Wanna sit down?" Shepard patted the empty spot next to him. Without a word or hesitation, Garrus walked around the couch. With a sigh, he let himself fall between the cushions. Shepard eyed him with a curious glance. Garrus was wearing a shirt and pants, his feet and half of his lower legs were sticking in soft, comfortable looking boots. It was rare to see him wearing casual clothes on board, a sight that Shepard would have loved to get used to. Even if that meant to give up his pretended irritation. There was something about the way this well-fitting outfit snug around Garrus' hips and legs that made it difficult to keep up his role as the strict commanding officer.

"Next time, tell me if you have a good, alternative plan," he began, his eyes returning to the stars in front of him. "I... we're friends, but if I always let insubordination slide it will be difficult to keep the crew in order."

"I know. I'm sorry." This time, Shepard believed him.

"Good. Remember that for next time. I'd hate to give you an official warning, Garrus Vakarian." Now that this was done, Shepard finally relaxed. A sudden tiredness fell over him, and he yawned.

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

"Go to bed, Shepard."

"Not now. Have to thank you first. For saving my life." He stretched his legs and kneaded his fingers. "You saved me from getting myself killed. Was a stupid move on my part. I should have run away, fuck, shouldn't have let them surround me like that in the first place."

"You should take some bloody care to not get yourself killed, Shepard!" Garrus growled with such sudden intense that Shepard tensed. "I... we went to hell the first time you died! You were gone, dead, just like that, and there was nothing I could have done to save you!" His fingers were clawing through his pants into his legs. His back was arched and tensed, and he stared at the floor. "And then you were back? Just like that? You're here, alive, breathing, joking, laughing. Like... you were never gone! And like you were never gone you rush into danger without  _thinking!_  Without letting me protect you when I can! You force me to stand and watch you die again. Damn, Shepard, I don't want to go through this again! Last time I did, I became an outlaw and a killer. In the name of good, but still a killer. And got a bunch of good men killed. Never again. Not when I can prevent it!"

"I... I'm sorry..." There was his best friend, scolding him, and, commander or not, Shepard deserved every word of it. He was an inconsiderate jerk. He had been busy to stop himself from thinking too much about his death and his return that he had forgotten what all this was doing to his friends. This friend in particular. He didn't deserve a friend like Garrus.

"I just don't want you to die, Dylan Shepard." Garrus sighed, but now that what he needed to say had broken out of him, the tension vanished.

"Me neither. And while we're at it, I don't want you to die either, Garrus Vakarian. Or should I say, Ghost of Archangel?"  _Does that count as an 'I love you'? Wait, did you just use my first name?_  Nobody used his first name, it would rob him of his status as a symbol, an icon for the heroism needed for what was lying ahead. To hear his first name was odd, out of place, and conjured up a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

"Well," he laughed in a vain attempt to shake the happy feeling off. "Just keep in mind, if you happen to outlive me, in one hundred years or so, I want to be remembered as the reckless dude who was saved by another reckless dude, creating the Ghost of Omega Station in the process. Doesn't that sound like a better legacy than 'fought as he was supposed to and didn't make it'?" He laughed again, a pitch to high, and nudged the turian's side with his elbow.

"You'll always make it. You better do, or the Ghost of Omega will haunt you through hell and back," was the grim reaction.

"If you plan to keep on my heels then, you might as well do it now and make sure we'll both make it, and tell our stories ourselves, right?"

"Right." Garrus nodded with firm conviction. That was all that Shepard wanted to hear this moment.

What followed was silence. They were watching the stars passing by as the Normandy journeyed forwards. The humming of the air ventilation was the only noise.

They were still alone.

There was no awkwardness between them, but Shepard was aware of a strange tension, wondering if Garrus sensed that something was up with him. How much did he have to lose? He should trust Garrus' as a friend, that he would forgive him if he... and if Garrus rejected him... they'd still be friends. They didn't want to see each other die and would risk anything to stop fate, how much more proof of his friendship did he need?

Yet, all Shepard dared to do was resting his tired head against Garrus' arm.

Nothing happened. Garrus didn't jump up, he didn't squirm or twitch away. He was still staring outside, only his hands were moving, his fingers tapping on his upper legs. Like they did earlier, in the Port Observation Deck.

"Uncomfortable?" Shepard muttered.

"No." Short and crisp.

 _Good._  Shepard's eyelids closed.  _Just resting them for a moment..._  Garrus next to him moved, slightly. Shepard smiled when the arm supported his head in a more comfortable position.

The humming of the ship, the smooth, regular breathing of his friend, his friend's warmth so close to him... Shepard dozed off.

Moments later, his eyes were wide open. His back hurt, and the sight in front of him confused him. Space... why... He remembered. He was still on the Starboard Observation Deck. He had fallen asleep! He had been leaning against Garrus, and fallen asleep! How the heck should he explain that to him...

But there was something else... something heavy against his head.

He glanced up, and smiled. Garrus was still sitting by his side, fast asleep himself, his head resting against Shepard's. And that wasn't all. Bloodshot into Shepard's face, and his heart was hammering in his throat when he looked down on his lap. His left hand was lying on his leg, Garrus' fingers carefully wrapped around it, giving it a tender squeeze in his sleep.


End file.
